


Connection

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek knows he's waiting -- but for what?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connection

Derek dreams of a path in the woods, littered with leaves and rocks and lichen. He walks, doesn't run, feels there's something he's supposed to see amid the trees and doesn't hurry lest he miss it. The sounds of the forest rise up to meet him, mix with the softened thud of his footsteps to become the rhythm of a heartbeat as he presses on. When he wakes he remembers the cadence of his breath, the repeated thought of _wait, wait, wait_. He sits at the edge of the bed with the sheets in his lap and tries to fathom why he feels reassured. The answer won't come, but he doesn't mind. _Wait_ , he murmurs and lets his gaze wander to the window, to the world outside, to the closed-down factory and the fragility of new construction. He sits, exists, and there's comfort in the plain act of breathing.

Winter break comes and his pack drifts back from college. Derek's glad to see them, to hear their chatter, to catalog the differences in who they've become. Scott has a confidence that's new, that smells metal-sharp, that speaks of grades that are finally climbing and friendships made where he'd worried there'd be none. Lydia's less brittle, softer now, no longer masking her smarts and manipulating popularity, comfortable in her skin, with her talents, with her gifts. Isaac's wound less tight and seems less wounded, the distance between then and now, here and there the alchemy he needed to dull memory and manage pain. And there's Allison, cheerful and self-assured, nursing a growing love for art, fingers stained with ink as much as roughened by calluses, paint a forgotten detail at the hem of her shirt. Derek notices everything, feels a strange throb of fondness for them all, tries to cover it with single-word answers and an old-school frown. But the expression won't stick – he's pleased they're back, feels happy around them. He can't help himself reach out to touch what's been missing for so long – a hand against a shoulder, an elbow in someone's side.

Stiles is late – sends texts to everyone to announce as much – which means Derek's attention swings entirely to him when he walks in the loft. He's taller, and he fits inside his body the way he never did at sixteen, seems a more solid presence than Derek remembers. His face still expresses everything he feels the moment he feels it, and his joy at having his pack once more is infectious, hard to resist. He works his way around the room, hugging everyone, slapping Scott on the back, kissing Lydia's cheek. And then he's standing in front of Derek and his heart kicks up a beat, and he smells of Doritos and the barest hint of sweat, of clean shirts and day-old jeans, of a happiness that makes his pulse run quick when Derek hugs him back.

The evening passes in a blur of take-out, of traded stories and familiar quips, of Stiles' hands speaking as loud as his words. When they make their moves to leave Derek feels a pang of regret that he doesn't know what to do with, a burst of understanding that shifts into pleasure when Scott calls out that he'll see them all the next day. And then only Stiles is left, cramming empty take-out cartons into the trash, washing his hands at Derek's kitchen sink, drying each finger with meticulous care. He smells warm and familiar, like the woods, like home, and then he stands in front of Derek and he says, "you've changed."

Derek falters at that, wonders what Stiles has seen. "So have you."

"Fair point." Stiles smiles at him, and his heart is jack-rabbiting in his chest. "You're happier."

"You're more . . . you," Derek offers, feeling tongue-tied and stupid.

"Is that what you've been waiting for?" Stiles asks.

And Derek almost takes a step back, the idea hits him so hard, and his mind whirls through a thousand iterations of what he thinks of when he thinks of Stiles. He opens his mouth to say something, but he hasn't the words to sum up his thoughts.

"Because I was waiting for you," Stiles says, and takes one of Derek's hands, places it on his hip watching Derek's face the entire time. Then he leans in and kisses Derek, licks his way into Derek's mouth and Derek sways into him, kisses him back, stops thinking altogether in favor of tasting Stiles against his tongue, in favor of the satisfied noise Stiles makes against his lips. There's nothing but this, the press of Stiles' nose against his cheek, the huff of the breath they catch before they kiss again, the soft, slick pressure of Stiles' mouth, the burn of Stiles' hand against Derek's back as he eases his fingers beneath Derek's shirt.

When they pull back they're breathing hard, and Stiles bites at his own lip but never stops looking Derek in the eye. "Well?" he asks.

"Maybe," Derek says, and feels the charge of the words in his throat, in his hands, a realization that runs bright though his blood. 

And Stiles grins at him, cups his jaw in one hand, brushes a thumb over Derek's stubble. "Patience rewarded," he says, and it's not clear which one of them he's talking about, but when he kisses Derek again Derek knows he doesn't care.

**Author's Note:**

> "Everything changes. Everything is connected. Pay attention." - Zen proverb


End file.
